Three yellow cartons rested on the work bench — cartons which had not been there before.
He opened the first box and found a bullet-proof vest made from some unfamiliar nylon weave. The presence of the vests on the bench was significant. He slipped out of his military jacket only long enough to don the vest and then turned to work.
Moresby chose a tape recorder, inserted a cartridge, tested the machine, and crisply recorded those observations made thus far: the step stool was — missing, the basement had collected dust, the water had not been refreshed, the clock-time of his arrival was off six hours and five minutes. He did not offer personal opinions on any observation. The recorder was put aside on the bench. His next act was to select a radio, connect the leads of the exterior antenna to the terminal screws on the chassis, and plug it into a wall socket. The tape recorder was moved to within easy listening distance and turned on. Moresby snapped on the radio and tuned in a military channel.
Voice: ”… moving around the northwest corner in a southerly direction — moving toward you. Estimated strength, twelve to fifteen men. Watch them, Corporal, they’re packing mortars. Over.” The sound of gunfire was loud behind the voice.
Voice: “Roger. We’ve got a hole in the fence at the northwest — some bastard tried to put a truck through. It’s still burning, maybe that’ll stop them. Over.”
Voice: “You must hold them, Corporal. I can’t send you any men — we have a double red here. Out.”
The channel fell silent, closing off the firefight.
Moresby was not given to panic or reckless haste. Feeling little surprise, he began methodically to equip himself for the target. An Army-issue automatic, together with its belt and extra ammunition, was strapped around his waist; he selected a rapid-fire rifle after examining its make and balance, then emptied several boxes of cartridges in his jacket pockets. All insignia marking him an officer were removed from his uniform, but there was little he could do now about the uniform itself.
The stores offered him no battle helmets or liners. Moresby slung a canteen of the insipid water over his shoulder and a pack of rations across his back. He decided against the tape recorder because of its extra bulk, but reached for the radio as he studied a map of Illinois. A sudden hunch told him the skirmish would be somewhere near Chicago; the Air Force had long been worried about the defense of that city because it was the hub of railroad and highway traffic — and there was the always-threatening problem of foreign shipping traversing the Great Lakes to tie up at Chicago ports. Surveillance of that shipping had always been inadequate.
He was reaching out to disconnect the antenna when the channel came alive.
Voice: “Eagle One! The bandits have hit us — hit us at the northwest corner. I count twelve of them, spread out over the slope below the fence. They’ve got two — damn it! — two mortars and they’re lobbing them in. Over.” The harsh, half-shrieking voice was punctuated by the dull thump of mortar fire.
Voice: “Have they penetrated the fence? Over.”
Voice: “Negative — negative. That burning truck is holding them. I think they’ll try some other way — blow a hole in the fence if they can. Over.”
Voice: “Hold them, Corporal. They are a diversion; we have the main attack here. Out.”
Voice: “Damn it, Lieutenant—” Silence.
Moresby reached again for the leads to sever the radio from the topside antenna, but was stopped by an idea. He switched to an alternate military channel, one of six on the instrument, and punched the send button.
“Moresby, Air Force Intelligence, calling Chicago or the Chicago area. Come in, Chicago.”
The channel remained silent. He repeated himself, waited impatiently for the sweep hand of his watch to make a full circle, and then made a third attempt. There was no response. Another military channel was selected.
“Moresby, Air Force Intelligence, calling Chicago or the Chicago area. Come in please.”
The radio crackled with static or small arms fire. A weak voice, dimmed by distance or a faulty power supply: “Nash here. Nash here, west of Chicago. Use caution. Come in, Moresby. Over.”
He stepped up the gain. “Major William Moresby, Air Force Intelligence on special duty. I am trying to reach Joliet or Chicago. Please advise the situation. Over.”
Voice: “Sergeant Nash, sir, Fifth Army, HQ Company. Chicago negative, repeat negative. Avoid, avoid. You can’t get in there, sir — the lake is hot. Over.”
Moresby was startled. “Hot? Please advise. Over.”
Voice: “Give me your serial number, sir.”
Moresby rattled it off, and repeated his question.
Voice: “Yes, sir. The ramjets called in a Harry on the city. We’re pretty certain they called it in, but the damned thing fell short and dropped into the lake off Glencoe. You can’t go in anywhere there, sir. The city has been fired, and that lake water sprayed everything for miles up and down the shoreline. It’s hot, sir. We’re picking up civilian casualties coming out, but there isn’t much we can do for them. Over.”
Moresby: “Did you get your troops out? Over.”
Voice: “Yes, sir. The troops have pulled back and established a new perimeter. I can’t say where. Over.”
A wash of static rattled the small speaker.
Moresby wished desperately for fuller information, but he knew better than to reveal his ignorance by asking direct questions. The request for his serial number had warned him the distant voice was suspicious, and had he stumbled over the number contact would have been lost. It suggested these radio channels were open to the enemy.
Moresby: “Are you certain those devils called in the Harry? Over.”
Voice: “Yes, sir, reasonably certain. Border Patrol uncovered a relay station in Nuevo Leon, west of Laredo. They think they’ve found another one in Baja California, a big station capable of putting a signal overseas. Navy pinned down a launching complex at Tienpei. Over.”
Moresby, fuming: “Damn them! We can expect more of the same if Navy doesn’t take it out quickly. Do you know the situation at Joliet? Over.”
Voice: “Negative, sir. We’ve had no recent reports from the south. What is your location? Be careful in your answer, sir. Over.”
Moresby took the warning. “Approximately eight miles out of Joliet. I am well protected at the moment. I’ve heard mortar fire but haven’t been able to locate it. I think I will try for the city, Sergeant. Over.”
Voice: “Sir, we’ve taken a fix on you and believe we know your location. You are very well protected there. You have a strong signal. Over.”
Moresby: “I have electricity here but I will be on battery when I leave cover. Over.”
Voice: “Right, sir. If Joliet is closed to you, the O.D. suggests that you circle around to the northwest and come in here. Fifth Army HQ has been re-established west of the Naval Training Station, but you’ll pass through our lines long before that point. Look for the sentries. Use care, sir. Be alert for ramjets between your position and ours. They are heavily armed. Over.”
Moresby: “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll go for the target of opportunity. Over and out.”
Moresby snapped off the radio and disconnected the leads. That done, he turned off the tape recorder and left it on the bench for his return.
He studied the map once again, tracing the two roads which led to the highway and the alternate highway into Joliet. The enemy would be well aware of those roads, as well as the railroad, and if their action reached this far south they would have patrols out. It wouldn’t be safe to use an automobile; large moving targets invited trouble.